Monday, August 3, 2015

Some more poems

Here are some poems I have written recently.

The first is one I wrote after going to a Mary and Martha service (Anglican Women's Fellowship service) and getting lost on the way.


There’s a red and white bus to take us to our meeting.
(We all simply must be there,)
but I can’t stay for tea; I have to leave early, 
so I drive  in my car, my own little car,
my little blue car
just behind it.

The sun shines bright, the gulls fly free.
The bus trundles on, on the road by the sea.
I sing as I drive in my own little car,
my little blue car,
just behind it.

The bus-driver swerves out to pass a slow truck.
 There are cars in the way and I have to swerve back
The bus speeds on, on the road by the sea
and I am there in my own little car
my little blue car
far behind it.

The bus turns left and then turns right
I see it stop by a traffic light,
but when I get there the bus is gone.
Do I turn left, or right, or go straight on
in my own little car, my little blue car,
in order to follow behind it?

The chairlady sitting in the back of the bus
gets worried when she looks 
through the window of the bus
and she doesn’t see me, in my own little car
my little blue car
just behind her.

I get a message on my hands-free phone
With directions to get to the meeting
then the phone goes dead. There’s no coverage.
The bus has gone without trace and I’m quite lost
in my own little car, my little blue car
far behind it.

But somehow I reach the town of Belhar
and there I meet a charming man called Basil (of Belhar,)
who takes me to all the churches in Belhar
until we find the red and white bus
and I park my own car, my little blue car
right behind it


She was the first dog that was my very own,
wouldn’t walk with anyone 
unless I told her to. She owned
one black ear and one white
and on her head a spot
to indicate the place to drop a kiss.

The face she showed the world
was pure and innocent, but underneath
there lurked the nature of a thief,
a devious raider of cupboards with a love
for trash and rubbish bins.

She was a hunter, dedicated to
the hounding of squirrels, geese and ducks. 
a killer of rats and moles, a TV star,
a guardian of the home, and
for all her sixteen years,
my friend.


“He sees a ghost,” you say
When your dog stares, growling, at an empty wall.
But do dogs see ghosts?
No, they don’t. They smell them.

There is a mouse-shaped smell that haunts
the space beneath the kitchen cupboard,
just in the spot a hapless rodent met its fate,
head bitten off and swallowed.
Say”mouse”− Jack Russell, Beemer
jumps up and barks and runs straight there.

There is a smelly feline ghost
that lives in the back lane and even I
catch whiffs of it at times. And then
there is the postman ghost
that hovers by my grandson’s gate
Dogs always circle him
with hackles raised.
though no one sends us letters any more.

And when my little dog sniffs round and round
a worn patch on the mat, and curls up
next to it, I know he smells the ghost
of my old beagle, Dipstick
lying there.

No comments:

Post a Comment